


Set Me as a Seal Upon Your Heart

by emmykay



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Priests, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Priest Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:29:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21596152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmykay/pseuds/emmykay
Summary: Something was amiss in the Priory of St Frideswide.  For months, Bishop Lewis had gone about his duties, his already age-worn visage unusually heavy with care.  Nearly everyone on his staff could tell there was something notably absent about his demeanor.Those aware of the internal relations within the clergy house would turn to Father Hathaway, vicar general, arranger of all things having to do with the bishop.  But even when pressed, he could give no answer.
Relationships: James Hathaway/Robert Lewis
Comments: 10
Kudos: 69
Collections: Fortune Favors: Round One— Rider-Waite-Smith





	Set Me as a Seal Upon Your Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the crystalball_mod for the reading. (Maybe I wasn't supposed to take it quite so literally.)
> 
> The Hierophant / 2 of Wands (Reversed) / Wheel of Fortune (Reversed)

Something was recently amiss in the centuries-old Priory of St Frideswide.

A cathedral close was as prone to rumor as any area inhabited by men and talk ran rife. For months, Bishop Lewis had gone about his duties, his already age-worn visage unusually heavy with care. Nearly everyone on his staff could tell there was something notably absent about his demeanor.

Those aware of the internal relations within the clergy house would turn to Father Hathaway, vicar general, arranger of all things having to do with the bishop. However, even when pressed, he could give no answer. If pressed sufficiently hard, a deep furrow developed between the blond eyebrows on his normally calm countenance, but no joy was given to the questioner. Midwife Hobson, sometimes friend and occasional opposite in practical applications of philosophy, would never speak of any of the Bishop's secrets. (While it might raise eyebrows over a simple healer having the ear of the bishop, the possible consequences of such a relationship was simply ignored by both people.)

Perhaps, some suggested, it was because of the approach of Easter, and the dictates of the ecclesiastical calendar. Others thought it had to do the always complicated political situation in the country. While it was known that Her Grace Jean, the Duchess of Nick, supported Bishop Lewis, there were many other players that were making it known that his place was not as secure as it might first appear. 

"Do you know anything further about the Bishop's departure?" asked one priest of another as they paused at the edge of the cloisters, away from any idle ears.

"Only that there will be a new bishop soon," the other replied with a shrug.

"Who, then?"

"Petersen, from an abbey in Sunderland, I believe. Why, do you know anything new?"

"I couldn't bring myself to ask. The Bishop doesn't speak when he is not interested in speaking."

"I know who would," a third voice interjected. There was a snigger, followed by a priest coming up from the stone-covered corridor at the end of the garden. The two speakers jumped at the new party, but turned interested faces toward the news. "His very reverend nob."

"Who? Oh. Oh." A replying laugh. "He wouldn't tell us anything the Bishop told him. He acts like any words between them is under the seal of confession."

"You know how it is between the two of them. At least, that's what his nob would like."

"You know who also would like it? The Bishop. You ever see the way he looks at the vicar? Like he is the second coming."

There was a gasp. "Blasphemy!" And then giggling. 

"Is there something any of you would like to talk to me about?" A deep, smooth voice asked icily, cutting off the giggling abruptly. "Or something that should be brought up to the Bishop? It can be easily arranged."

The horrified "no's" were meek and gasped and the newly penitent scurried out of the way of the wrath of the terrifyingly blank-faced Vicar General. 

James Hathaway stood for a moment in the sun-lit patch of green, shaking his head at his own lack of sense. It mattered not what they had said about him, but he still should not have spoken. He could not stop himself, he could not bear to have any word spoken against Bishop Lewis. That much the ill-mannered fools had correct. 

He retreated back into his office. There, paneled by ancient oak darkened with time, surrounded by the ledgers and religious tracts, he sat down at his simple desk and stared down at the worn, empty surface. He had felt burdened by his intellect almost his entire life, even though it had freed him from the meager life of his parents, who were tied to the estate of Lord Mortmaigne. It was only here, in this office, handling the affairs of the Bishop, that he truly felt comfortable. Out there, in the halls of the clergy house, out in the cathedral close, anywhere in the diocese, was where he felt judged by others. The worst of it was that they were not wrong. At least, not on his side. That was the shame of it.

He adored Bishop Lewis: deeply, truly, sincerely, utterly. 

Many did appreciate the Bishop as an example of teaching, sanctifying, and governing as well as the Christian virtues of charity, humility, and good works. Lewis was not a natural administrator, but faithfully attended to the lands of the diocese, turned over the two-thirds of the tithes back to the people as required, and believed in the application of justice for all under his influence, himself included. He had advised the local nobility, appointed priests, and looked after the spiritual life of his diocese with a brisk, practical attitude that differed from many of similar position. His particular empathy with the bereaved, accounted for by a knowledgeable few of an early marriage which ended in death of both mother and child on the birthing bed, was much appreciated by many.

James knew this feeling was more than simple acknowledgement of someone's good qualities. He had seen Lewis in moments of anger, times of severity, during expressions of disappointment with those about him; James included. Nothing had changed James' feelings.

It wasn't even the customary adoration of an underling for their superior, or a man for another man of the cloth. Such could be easily dismissed. James had done so for the first few years of their acquaintance. His own thoughts, leading away from the altar to the bed in his cell had made him a liar. Repeatedly. Shamefully.

There were moments during long restless nights when James would think of the way the Bishop was during service, secret moments when James would think of the press of the Bishop's hands against his, the looks they shared that he would think of as the only ones given to him. In the darkness, James had touched himself intimately while thinking of the Bishop, wondering what it would feel like, those hands on him, touching him, penetrating him. It was sacrilege, and it burned him with a roaring delight during the thought, and froze him with shame when he came to think of it later.

He understood this was the deeply mortifying desire for physical affection of a man for another man. Certainly, James was aware of other rumors of men laying with other men, even among other clergy. He had even rebuffed what might have been a few such advances. He had never been sufficiently interested to make the risk worth the discovery. No matter one's status, the punishments were severe if brought to light. In the few instances he had heard Lewis speak of it, it had been with a measured voice, regretful that such a relationship had been caught, without the immediate and harsh condemnation another might have brought to bear. It had only made him love Lewis more.

Perhaps this feeling could be stamped out if it was in the realm of the merely physical, but it was not. His feelings for Lewis were of admiration, of love, of wishing to please him as a servant to his master as a man should to his spiritual superior, yes, and also carnal desire. He had so much shame, so much. It burned him up, the fever-hot humiliation, the fiery betrayal within his own body. 

He could not confess. To whom could he unburden himself? Confession could do nothing to relieve the ache, to balance the conflict with him however much he wished he could release it, and regardless, he was not sufficiently penitent. He could not stop. He was a creature of wretchedness within the eyes of his god and against natural law, and most likely, his lord.

At the height of James' attempts at penitence, he had lain facedown on the hard stone of the cathedral, in front of the ornately carved wooden altar, a sackcloth under his cassock, praying to stop feeling, desperate for the chill of the stone to enter his heart and freeze his body, begging the Lord Almighty to cure him of his dread affections. He wanted to cry out, _What was this affliction, my God, this impossible burden of affection?_

It had not worked.

The most logical thing would be to request a move to another priory, another diocese. Remove himself from temptation. Yet this he could not bring himself to do. That Bishop Lewis was removing himself should be a relief, a welcome answer to the plague of his own emotions. It was James' own perversity that caused him to grieve what would be the absence of his master. James Hathaway was going to miss being Lewis' vicar general, as he had served the man for eight of his best years in the priesthood.

The weeks flew by, the season turned, the new Bishop installed. It was to be the Bishop Lewis' last Mass. 

Along with a handful of other priests and deacons, James helped the Bishop get dressed for this last official public act, and then watch him wash his hands. Personally, he had brought the Bishop hand cloths. He shivered inwardly as those strong, weathered fingers and palms dried themselves. Others had offered items of beautifully decorated vestments, made of the finest cloth, embroidered with silk and gold. 

James strained to hear the soft prayer before each was settled on the Bishop's body, the Latin flavored with the North of the Bishop's youth. He paid special attention to the items the Bishop kissed. First over the black cassock came the square amice, then the delicately lacy alb, the tying of the cinture, the pectoral cross, the stole was draped over the back of his neck, the white surplice, and finally, the green chasuble over all.

James felt the weight as each item settled as if it were he they were being placed upon on, the whisper of fabric against skin and further layers of fabric, the layered scent of lye soap and dried flowers.

The service went well, as well as any he could remember. There had been something special in Bishop Lewis' final service. Unlike many in the bishopric, Lewis liked performing Mass, and he preferred to perform High Mass in as simple a manner as possible, with a minimum of altar servers and fuss, and this service was even more spare than usual. Even so, cloaked in the full dress of his office, Bishop Lewis was magnificent, powerful, majestic. Maybe it was the soft light of the spring sunlight coming through the great rose stained window of the cathedral against the Bishop's bare head, maybe it was the expressions across the faces of the parishioners, maybe it was the voices of the choir as they rose and fell in harmony behind the Bishop, maybe it was something within Hathaway's own heart. His treacherous heart, that felt it might break during this moment of his master's triumph.

The last blessings given, then a final clasp of hands, a few tears, and the last parishioner was on their way. The priests and deacons who made up the choir slowly separated to go about their activities for the rest of the day, while others came forward to clear up after Mass.

"You don't have to clear up, James," the Bishop said, quietly, surprising James out of his peculiar state of mind. "There are many others who can do this. You can attend the new Bishop, he will be pleased to see you." 

"No, milord," James said, his throat tight. "It is no trouble." 

"Clearing up after an old priest? You deserve better," Lewis said, a catch in his throat. He coughed, and continued confidently. "You will do better. I will recommend it to Bishop Peterson. He'll take it under advisement, I am sure."

James looked around them. The remaining clergymen had gone to attend their duties, some lingering at the edges of the nave, unwilling to interrupt what must look like the last conversation between him and his mentor. "It will be too political. I don't know how I will continue, much less advance with your successor."

"You are the brightest, most devout soul in all of the see. Politics are nowt against such."

"I do not know there will be another like you, milord."

Lewis shook his head, slowly. "Nor would I know another like you, good lad."

"You have given me so much, so much. Before you arrived, I was considering leaving the order, as I could no longer find it within me to stay. None understood me as you do, none tolerated my manners nor my speech."

"James, lad." Lewis' voice was soft. Briefly, he placed a hand on James' head, a benediction. James' heart jerked against his breastbone. "I could not have done this job without you. You - your work - have been a gift to me. If my presence caused you to stay, I can only say that is one good thing I have done in this life."

As if that touch was a signal, others came along to finish clearing up, replacing the vessels and the linens back into the sacristy. Still others approached to help with the removal of the Bishop's vestments. As each piece was removed and carefully put away, James could see the very real removal of the burden of his office through the lightening of Lewis' stance. The office had taken its toll on Lewis, deepening the creases in his face, bending his back with its weight.

After the final piece was put away, Lewis thanked them all, casting a blessing over the group. He was going to his chambers to finish packing, and he refused any assistance.

Grief rose in his throat, choking James. Unlike the rest of the men, he couldn't even bring himself to whisper a reply.

* * *

Shortly after Compline, James brought himself to the Bishop's modest rooms, as hopeful of privacy as possible in the late hour. Unlike previous bishops, Lewis had continued to live in the clergy house, only using the bishop's residence as his offices. James knocked and entered upon the greeting, closing the door behind him.

"James!" Lewis said, surprised, a single taper shedding a soft pale light in the otherwise dark room. He was dressed in a plain cassock of black wool, much as any other ordinary priest. As powerful as Lewis had appeared during service, James found he preferred to see Lewis this way, in his simple humanity.

"Milord. I'm sorry for the late visit."

"Not at all, I'm glad you've come." Lewis gestured, the only clear space in the room was on the simply dressed pallet bed, the rest of the small space taken up with scattered bundles of books and clothing, presumably for his imminent move.

"Milord - "

"James, call me Robbie, please. I've told you, I'm not going to be anything but Father Robbie after this night." Lewis sat down next to James.

"I know, mi - Robbie." Despite the previous corrections and his own mental attempts to rehearse, the name felt unfamiliar on his tongue, light. Nothing like the emotion he felt inside his chest. 

After a moment, Lewis stood and gestured to his still largely unpacked shelves. "If there is anything here you want, you would do me the favor of taking it."

James shook his head. What he wanted, he knew could not have. He cleared his throat. "I've heard tell that your retirement surprised many of the parishioners." James wanted to add, _and to me_.

"I am sorry if they, or you, feel I have not done as I should by leaving. I know most bishops die in their traces, but that wasn't for me. I didn't want to speak until all the matters were settled." Lewis sighed. "This does not make things easier, but you and I both know I was only appointed by the insistence of our good Lady Innocence and Archbishop Morse, God rest his plaguey soul, and there's many in Oxford who would have wished for another. Maybe someone of high birth or great wealth. I have done my best, but it is time for me to be done with this post."

"Where will you go, mi - Robbie?"

"Her Grace is providing me a small living over to the west, more to do with Morse from what I understand. There'll be sheep. Fancy me being a shepherd of actual sheep." A small smile crept over Lewis' mouth. "Any road, it'll be near a priory over to the west. Maybe the Prior will need some assistance for a new school there. I hope I will be able to assist them, and perhaps find a measure of my own peace." Smiling, Lewis said, "There's bound to be less nonsense in a boy's school there than there is in church politics here."

James found himself unable to answer, facing the reality of never being in this room again, never eating with, nor speaking, not even seeing Lewis again.

"James?"

Shaking with the force of his emotions, James dropped to his knees onto the stone floor, grasping at the Bishop's right hand, leaning against his thigh. Trembling, he kissed the ring, adoring the finger it adorned, unable to release it. "Please, milord, grant me one last boon."

"James - !" There was an audible gulp. "Are you sure you want to be asking this of me and not my successor? He can much more easily assist you."

"Yes. Please. I am asking you." He looked up at Lewis, and into his pale blue eyes, and then away, finding he was unable to bear their keen perception.

"What is it? If it is within my power, I will grant it to you."

 _"Ne adverseris mihi ut relinquam te et abeam: quocumque enim perrexeris, pergam, et ubi morata fueris, et ego pariter morabor. Populus tuus populus meus, et Deus tuus Deus meus."_

At Lewis' harsh inhale of surprise, James risked a glance upward. Those blue eyes blazed in that beloved face. 

"Do you know what you're asking?" There was hesitation in that voice.

"I do." 

He watched the flush grow over Lewis' cheeks, the harsh breath he took. "I. I. Lad. I can't."

James wanted to flee, but found himself rooted to the spot in his shame. He blurted, "Why, milord? Why not? Why not me?'

Lewis pulled away and covered his face with one hand. He sighed, and his shoulders dropped in exhaustion. "I need to leave you behind, James."

"What have I done?"

"It is nothing you have done. It is because of a weakness in me. I can consign myself to hell and damnation, but I cannot bring you down with me."

"I don't understand." He wanted to believe, desperately, but could he?

Lewis gently touched James' cheek. There was compassion, yes, but also, also, James dared to hope, based on the hooded glance that lingered on his face, longing. "It's better that way."

He pulled away from Lewis and leaned down to kiss the hem of his cassock. "I would do whatever you require of me. Please, do not leave me behind."

A warm, heavy hand landed on the back of James' neck. His voice thickened, Lewis almost seemed to sob. "Bonny lad."

James began to shiver. He could feel the rejection, however tender, in Lewis' voice. He crouched on the floor, waiting for Lewis to leave. To abandon him. He could not bear to look at Lewis. "If you don't take me, I will leave regardless, and the devil is welcome to take me."

"Come, stand."

"No," he said sulkily.

When hands grasped James' upper arms, he rose. Hysterically, he thought he could run, escape, hide somewhere in the maze of corridors and buildings in the cathedral close. Surely Lewis would not follow. As he tried, Lewis' grip tightened and he was pulled into the Bishop's body.

"I would shake you if I could," Lewis said. It wasn't his words that James was attending to. It was the harsh breathing, the dilation of his eyes, the tension that ran along Lewis' body.

"Do it, then," James goaded.

As if he were struck, Lewis released and stepped away from James. "I am an old man, what use is it for you to come with me? You have so much life left. If not here, then elsewhere."

"I will have no life without you!" James cried back.

"What could I give you that you could want?" Lewis groaned. "I have no lands, I have no family of note, I have no influence, I no longer even have office."

"You," James said, and he tilted his head so his mouth was close to Lewis', and they shared a breath. "Give me you." He could feel the rise and fall of Robbie's chest as they shared another. Then another. "Please."

With an agonized gasp that sounded like _"Christ,"_ Lewis bridged that gap between them and, unbelievably, James' felt the soft lips of his lord upon his own. The kiss started in a rush, but softened, slowed as they tasted each other. James' arms went around Robbie, and he pressed him to his body. 

James kissed Robbie as if he were starving, dreaming of this day for nearly eight years. He pulled back, suddenly tentative. While he understood, somewhat, of what happened between two people, he did not understand the intensity of his own feelings. Of feeling of relief and ownership and hunger and desperation, of the increasing rise of sensations within his own body. Robbie's hands were on his arms, stroking his back, and resting over his waist, waiting. James' body, his heart, longed for this. He kissed Robbie again, wholly giving over to his feelings. 

He could not get close enough, touch enough, there were too many clothes in the way. "Please," he murmured. "Please."

"I cannot say nay to you when you ask like that," Robbie said, rueful. He separated them just enough to get his hand between their bodies and grasped James' hardened cock.

James shuddered beneath Robbie's grip, and a terrible weakness seized his whole body. He leaned against Robbie, who eased them onto the small bed, where James sat on Robbie's lap. There, James felt free to do as he had hoped to do, and grasped the robes between them, tugging upward until he could feel the free air on his fevered flesh, and the renewed clasp of Robbie's hand over his rigid manhood, and the roughness of Robbie's hairy thighs against his own.

He gasped, he wanted Robbie to feel what he felt, he was desperate to share this maelstrom of feeling that was roaring through his body and he reached out to Robbie's own hard, fiery hot cock, dripping with slickness. He did not have experience beyond his own touch, but he could feel Robbie's body jerk in surprise and heard Robbie's swallowed sob under his own panting lips.

Anxiously, James thrust his hips upward as he moved Robbie's other hand downward, past his sack, down to where he had so long dreamed of those dexterous fingers. It was beyond what he could have possibly imagined, the firm thickness against the small spread of skin, and then, when Robbie paused, James urged those fingers onward with a small heave of his body. 

Hot breath against his neck whispered, "You sure?"

James nodded, as the heat between them caused sweat to drip down his forehead. He bit his lip as those fingers so gently probed his hole, and then as he gasped, "yes, yes," breached the sensitive opening. Lewis' finger inside of him felt enormous, and when he moved, so so carefully, James could feel nothing but full, and then with another slow stroke, it was as if he saw nothing but stars. 

Gasping, sweating, they continued to grab and stroke each other, their awkwardness become less so as the heat and slick eased with each stroke, until with a final muffled scream, James felt his body twist and tighten until the heavens opened up and flung him into peaceful exhaustion. He could feel Robbie's own ecstasy immediately follow. He could feel Robbie's grip loosen and relax. 

James slowly came back to himself, his breathing gradually returning. It did not feel sinful. It felt wonderful, as right as anything had ever in his life. But, he looked downward. He realized his own position, half-naked on the lap of his bishop, in his own bed, covered with their mess. His heart began to pound. What had he done? What would Robbie say?

"I can hear you thinking," Robbie said.

"I'm sorry."

"I have never believed this to be sinful," Robbie said, a hand against James' back, gently stroking.

"I don't want to believe it is," James replied. He hesitated, and perhaps that was sufficient for Robbie to pull him closer into his arms, to lay tightly with him on this small bed meant for one. Is this not comfort? he wondered. Is this not what he had been looking for since he first acknowledged his feelings for Robbie? To feel their breaths mingle, and the heat of his body as it was embraced - it was a comfort and a joy that he could barely begin to find words for, only feeling as a cup full of warmth and light.

"This is why I wanted to leave, you know. You were a temptation to me, and one I feared I could not resist." Robbie sighed. "If I had been stronger when you came to me, you could have gone onward, blameless - "

"But I did," James interrupted, not wanting Robbie to blame himself. "This is what I wanted, even though - "

"Yes?"

"I didn't know _that_ is what it would be like. With you...it was better than I ever could have imagined."

"Worth your immortal soul?"

With a nod, James said, "Yes."

A hand reached down and tipped James' chin upwards, the gentle grip bringing him to directly face Lewis. "James, lad, what shall we do now?"

"I - I don't know. If I am to burn for this, then so be it," James said. "I would have been damned regardless, and for what we have just done, it is done."

"Do you not want to do penance?"

"No. For what purpose? Any penance I would do would be insincere. I have thought it over many times, and my devotion is with you. Wherever you go."

Thoughtfully, Lewis said, "I expect there will be enough from the living that it could support two. And I imagine I will need some help on the property, as Innocent said it might need some upkeep. If you do not mind working with sheep, and were willing to leave sooner rather than later - "

"Yes," exclaimed James. "Yes!"

"Tell me again, then, what it is you want in simple words. You know I am not as good as you in Latin."

Looking at the blue eyes he so loved, James recited, "Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God." 

In that voice that had caused James so much anguish, and then, so much pleasure, and now, rang with promise, Robbie said, "Arise, my love, my beautiful one, and come away, for behold, the winter is past; the rain is over and gone. The flowers appear on the earth, the time of singing has come, and the voice of the turtledove is heard in our land." 

**Author's Note:**

> The cards represent Hathaway at the start of the story: Lewis is obviously the Heirophant, the 2 of Wands (Reversed) is about Hathaway's inability to move forward from the place he finds himself, and the Wheel of Fortune (Reversed) is how he comes take control of his situation, and make his choice. 
> 
> Apologies for any mistakes, I'm not Catholic nor a historian and internet research can only take one so far.
> 
> Credit to a kind anon for Midwife Hobson.
> 
> The translation of Ruth 1:16 came from an online version of the Vulgate. https://www.sacred-texts.com/bib/vul/rut001.htm#013
> 
> Title and last line comes from the Song of Solomon.
> 
> I took the name of Priory of St Frideswide (the precursor of Christ Church, Oxford) as the inspiration of my imaginary cathedral, throwing on bits of Salisbury Cathedral when it fitted. I saw this line in the priory entry of wikipedia: "In pre-Reformation England, if an abbey church was raised to cathedral status, the abbey became a Cathedral Priory" and ran with it.
> 
> In thinking about Lewis placed in the medieval/renaissance period in history, something that kept coming back to me was the phrase "an age of relatively uncomplicated faith" (Ellis Peters, forward to A Rare Benedictine). I do think he would have a complicated relationship with religion, but would probably be less likely to say it out loud.
> 
> "His nobs/ his nob" is a possible precursor to "his nibs." http://www.word-detective.com/2012/01/nibs/
> 
> Punishments for homosexual acts between men in the medieval period were harsh and unforgiving. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Homosexuality_in_medieval_Europe


End file.
